


4 Months

by ready_to_kick_some_ass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Sherlock in Exile, Short One Shot, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 00:50:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11978634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ready_to_kick_some_ass/pseuds/ready_to_kick_some_ass
Summary: Mycroft was wrong. It only lasted four months - not six.





	4 Months

In the end, it only lasted 4 months. 

But it still felt like an eternity for Sherlock.

Two days before the end, he sat in the ramshackl hut, his hiding place for two weeks already, and looked at the gun shot wound in his left thigh with a frown. It wasn’t looking good. Infected. And it hurt like hell.  
He gritted his teeth, and bandaged the wound with a strip he ripped from his dirty shirt. Then he lay back and stared at the ceiling. He smiled bitterly.

_Mycroft was wrong._

_It won’t last 6 months._

_I can’t even be happy that he was wrong for once._

Sherlock closed his eyes.

_John …_

John would be in his flat in London right now.  
Making breakfast for his daughter. And for Mary.  
Living his life.  
An ordinary, civil life now.  
A life as a family father how it should be. 

 _I hope he’s happy_ , Sherlock thought. _I hope he’s happy and has forgotten about me._

His hand wandered in his jacket, where John’s old dog tags were.

Sherlock wondered if John had noticed that they were gone.

Maybe not. 

Outside, a crow called out.  
The wind roared against the thin walls of the hut.  
It was cold.  
It was always cold.

Sherlock had gotten used to it. The cold was the last thing that bothered him on those days.

He gritted his teeth when a sharp pain chased through his body. He choked on a broken moan.  
What he would give for a little bit of cocain right now. Or morphine.  
But he had already consumed his last shot a few days before.  
And in the ice desert of Russia there was no possiblity to buy drugs.

Pity. 

_Are you afraid_? A voice in his head that sounded suspicious like Moriarty whispered. _Are you afraid to die?_

 _Yes_ , Sherlock answerd himself and shuddered. _I am. If I was religious, I would have the illusional hope for something coming after … but I expect no heaven or hell. Only something endless I can’t describe or imagine. I’m afraid._

 _And you regret_ , said the voice. 

Sherlock swallowed. Oh yes. He regretted a lot of things. But the thing he regretted most of all was, that he never told John the truth.  
His ridiculous feelings. His … yearnings.  
All those years he had imagined. Had imagined how John’s lips would feel on his own. On his skin.  
How John’s warm hands would hold him when they hugged.  
How John’s body would be pressed against his when they lay in bed together.  
Illusions stayed illusions.  
And the truth was a secret that wasn’t supposed to be revealed.

_Now it’s too late._

_It was already too late when I came back after I died the first time._

_Too late._

He heard a wolf howling somewhere in the distance and sighed. 

_John._

_I would give everything to see him again._

_Everything._

*

Two days later, he was discovered. 

It was a short run. 

After a few minutes, his bad leg wouldn’t to carry him anymore. 

Only the crows observed what happened.

A single shot let them fly up from the bare trees. Screaming, they flew away.

Blood in the snow. 

*

John observed how his daughter entered the door to the kindergarden with a grin.

She turned around to face him a last time and waved.

He waved back and stayed, until the door closed behind her. 

Then he turned to get back into the car.

It was a daily routine.

But this day, something was different.

“Hello, John,” a calm, cold voice said behind him.

John turned around surprised. 

“Mycroft,” he said and scratched his head. “It’s long time ago.”

“Yes,” said the other man and leaned on his umbrella. Written on his face was a strange expression. A mixture of sadness and … grief?  
John frowned.  
“What is it? Is it something with Sherlock?”

“Yes,” Mcroft answered quietly. “His mission is … over.”

“But, didn’t you say it would last 6 months?” John asked, and suddenly he had a bad feeling. A lump formed in his throat.

Mycroft sighed and pulled something out of his jacket. 

John froze, as he saw what it was.  
His dog tags.  
He took them from Mycroft with a trembling hand, and looked at them.  
A single smudge of dried blood was on one of them.  
John looked at Mycroft’s rigid face. And then he knew.

“No,” he whispered. He shook his head. “No. No!”

Mycroft swallowed and looked down. “I’m very sorry, John.”

John Watson sank to the ground and screamed.

A crow flew up from a tree with a startled screech.

**Author's Note:**

> Say hello on [Tumblr](http://currently-in-my-mind-palace.tumblr.com/) :)  
> Corrected by [bakerstreet-irregular](http://bakerstreet-irregular.tumblr.com/).  
> 


End file.
